


Sherlock Vs. The Horseman

by jonnyluvssherlock



Series: Film/Book Crossover [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Mary OOC, Mary as Brom, Mild Smut, Minor Violence, editing history so women can have more power cause i can, homosexuality is against the law at this time, jim moriarty is john's step father, john watson as john van tassel, lots of people get murders, magic was a crime that could get you burned to death, minor homophobia issues, sherlock get scarred a lot, sherlock is ichabod crane, sherlock passes out a lot, sleepy hollow movie crossover, some gender bending, talk about murder, talking about dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyluvssherlock/pseuds/jonnyluvssherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's relationship with the New York police becomes frayed when they become concerned about his experiment.  When a letter from Sleepy Hollow arrives asking for his help it seems like the perfect distraction.  He heads out into the countryside but what he finds will shake the core of his believes.  As will the mysterious John Van Tassel.  Is he a friend or foe and could be the person who brought him here?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as people might be able to tell i really enjoy crossovers. i have been trying to do this one for Halloween and am very excited that i am getting at least the first chapter up in time!
> 
> sociopathslikecatstoo and Tanouska were the beta's for this fic. just a shout out them for all the help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a re-edited version of the fix i posted a year ago. i was not happy with the end result so i re worked it.

**New York, 1819**

 

Sherlock Holmes followed a constable who was pushing a cart carrying a corpse, which he had helped fish out of the Hudson River into the jailhouse.  He was hoping they would allow him to perform an autopsy and some experiments on it.  

 

The high constable took one look at the corpse, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Burn it.”

 

“Yes sir.”   Said the cart-pushing constable.

 

“Just a moment, if I may” Sherlock interjected as he stepped forward.  “We do not yet know the cause of death.”  Sherlock gestured to the corpse.

 

“You found them in the river. Cause of death is drowning.” The high constable looked at him as if he was bored.

 

“I could determine if he were dead before he went into the water.  I will need to examine the body.”

 

“Are we heathens?!”  The high constable spat out, forcing an end to the conversation.

 

Sherlock was not sure why he bothered to help the police at that moment.  He was getting nowhere.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Sherlock headed home to Baker Street in a black mood. He had not gotten what he wanted, even after he had talked to the Magistrate.  No one seemed to care about cause of death.  They just wanted things done quickly.  He was heading up the stairs to his flat when he heard the door to his landlady’s flat open.

 

“Home at last, Sherlock.”  Mrs. Hudson smiled at him.

 

“Why am I the only one who sees that to actually solve crimes, to detect the guilty, we must use our minds to recognize vital clues using up-to-date scientific techniques?”  He grumbled.

 

“Work with the police not going well?” She gave him a sympathetic smile.

 

“They’re all idiots who are afraid of change!” Sherlock started up the stairs.

 

“You have a letter.”  Mrs. Hudson called out.

 

Sherlock turned and saw her standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding it out to him.  He took it from her, nodded, and headed up to this flat, which had become more of a lab than a home.   Even his bedroom was used more to hold specimens then to sleep.  The last person, other than his landlady, to walk inside had told him it looked like a mad scientist lived with him.  They did not realize he was the mad scientist.

 

_Dear Sherlock Holmes,_

_I live in an isolated farming community upstate, two days journey north in the Hudson Highlands. It is named Sleepy Hollow. Within a fortnight, three persons have been murdered.  Each with their head lopped cleanly off.  The elders have sent dispatches to the police asking for help, but they all say that they are too busy._

_I know that even if they came, they would not be able to help us.  I have read your articles in the papers and believe we need someone with a modern mind to help us.  I think you are our only hope._

_\- J_

Sherlock read the letter several times. The writer was clearly male, well educated or had seen an educated hand and could copy it.  They wished to remain anonymous, but could not resist teasing with an initial. Were they playing with him? Trying to draw him in, or was it that they wanted him to guess who they were once he arrived?

 

He pulled out a map and found Sleepy Hollow on it. He had not heard anything about the murders, which was not surprising.  However, he was astonished to find that the police were not more interested. What was keeping them away?

 

His position with the police was frayed at the moment. Perhaps some time apart to let the police understand how much they actually needed him would be beneficial. He decided instead of writing a reply, he would get there as soon as possible.  He packed all the tools he would need, his notebooks, and a few books.

 

Then, with slight regret, he went to the birdcage holding his red cardinal and let it go out the window.  As he stood watching the spot of red disappear, he noticed a carriage pull up outside.  It was time to go.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The carriage dropped Sherlock off at the edge of Sleepy Hallow.  He faced two massive, vine-covered pillars with statues of stags’ heads mounted on top of them. He looked up the road where the carriage had disappeared, then down the long road into town.  It was getting dark; if he wanted to find a place to stay before they closed, he would have to walk quickly.

 

As he entered the town, he was met with an eerie silence.  The main square was completely empty, not a person in sight.  Then he looked up and saw someone closing their window, then again with the next house. These people were definitely afraid of something.

 

The first people he saw outside were from afar. There was a rudimentary watchtower undergoing what seemed to be a changing of the guard; two guards coming down and a second pair going up.  Though the longer he watched, he realized the shorter man was actually a child and was just there to see the other man taking his post off.

 

Sherlock walked all the way through town and out the other side.  He was looking for a specific house.  He had done some research on the community and found that the Van Tassel family was the oldest and grandest of the bunch.  They would most likely know everyone, including the victims.  They would also have been one of the families to make the decision to contact the police.

 

The front door of the house was a massive double door with bull’s head doorknockers.  Sherlock set his bag down and knocked, waiting for the doors to open. A servant opened the door for him revealing a party happening within the foyer.

 

He picked up his bags and headed in, hoping to find someone who could lead him to Mrs. Van Tassel.  The crowd was thick, but he pushed his way through until he found a group of individuals closer to his own age.  

 

They were walking in a circle around a blindfolded man in the middle.  The blindfolded man was doing half jumps at them while chanting.  He looked about 20, though he could have been younger. He had light blond hair and wore a well-cut grey suit with a blue waistcoat, which appeared to be of finer quality than those of the people surrounding him.

 

“The Pickety Witch.  The Pickety Witch.  Who’s got a kiss for the Pickety Witch?  The Pickety Witch.” The blond chanted over and over.

 

Sherlock was trying to slip past, but he got too close and the man grabbed him by the face.  He froze in shock and mild horror; he had never enjoyed being the center of attention.

 

“Is it Theodore?”  The man asked, unsure of his answer.

 

“Begging your pardon, sir, I’m a stranger.” Sherlock muttered.

 

The man smiled.  “Then have a kiss on account.”  He kissed Sherlock on the cheek very briefly.  Then removed his kerchief blindfold and looked at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was stunned for a moment by how handsome he was.  He had dark blue eyes, and, close up, he could see his lips were the perfect shade of pink. He swallowed before focusing on his task.  “I am looking for Bertha Van Tassel.

 

“I’m her son, John Van Tassel.”

 

Sherlock added the “j” name to a list in his head.

 

“And who are you, friend?  We have not heard your name yet.”  An angry, short blond woman stepped forward, looking shrewdly at him.

 

“I’ve not said.”  Sherlock said sarcastically to the woman then turned back to John. “Excuse me.”  He bowed lightly and started to move away.

 

The woman grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.  “You need some manners.” She yelled.

 

“Mary!”  John yelled, moving to step between the two parties.

 

“Come, come.  We’ll have no raised voices.”  A woman’s voice called out.  “It is only to raise sprits during this dark time that I, and my dear husband, are giving this little party.  Young sir, you are most welcome, even if you are selling something.”

 

Sherlock had turned during the speech to see an older woman in her fifties talking to them.  She looked jovial and plump.  Slightly behind her was her husband, who looked to be about a decade younger than she. He was dressed in the latest fashions, his long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his skull.

 

Sherlock readjusted his suit, and then pulled out his business card.  “Thank you, Madam. My name is Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective with the New York Police.”  He handed Mrs. Van Tassel his card.  “The police have decided to dismiss your case.  They will give you all sorts of excuses, but the truth is that it is too complicated.  I saw the file, and thought I would try and help.”

 

He thought it was best not to mention the letter at this point.  Whoever had written it did not want him to know their name.  They might be in the room right now.

 

“Sleepy Hollow is grateful to you, Mr. Holmes.” Mr. Van Tassel said in a sultry voice. “And we hope you will honor us by remaining in this house.”

 

“Well spoken, dear.”  Mrs. Van Tassel smiled.  “Come sir, we’ll get you settled.  Play on!”  He called to the crowd.

 

Sherlock noticed an annoyed looked on Mr. Van Tassels face when his wife spoke.  However, he covered it when she looked at him.

 

 

Sherlock was led up to a room where he unpacked some of his things.  A knock on the door let him know a servant was entering, though he said nothing.  He could only tell it was a man by the tread of his feet.

 

“Please, tell Mrs. Van Tassel I will be down in a moment.”

 

“I will, sir.”  He whispered and fled the room.

 

 

 

Sherlock entered the parlor to find not just Mrs. Van Tassel, but a group of older townspeople.   This is what the letter must have meant about the elders.

 

“Come in.”  Mrs. Van Tassel called to him from her spot by the door.  She turned to her husband who was standing beside her. “Please take care of the party my dear.”

 

Mr. Van Tassel nodded and headed to the door.

 

“We are joined by Dr. Tomas Lancaster, Reverend Steenwyck, Constable Magistrate Samuel Philipse, and, lastly, this fine fellow is James Hardenbrook, our notary.”  Mrs. Van Tassel pointed to each man as she said his name.  Most were sitting, but she and Dr. Lancaster stood with their backs to the fire.

 

Sherlock added the second “j” name to his list. “And you, madam?” Sherlock inquired.

 

“A simple farmer who has prospered. The town looks to me as friend and counsel.”

 

“And landlord, and banker.  Can we proceed?”  Dr. Lancaster cut in.

 

“Thank you.”  Sherlock said in monotone.  He pulled one of his notebooks out and held it in front of himself.  “Three persons murdered.”  He began to pace the room as he recounted the crime.  “First, Peter Ban Garrett and his son Dirk Van Garrett. Both of them strong, capable men, found together, decapitated.  One week later, the widow Winship, also decapitated.  Now, I will need to ask you many questions.”  Sherlock went back so that he was standing where they could all see him and held his notebook out in front of him.  “First, let me ask: Is anyone suspected?”

 

Dr. Lancaster chuckled into his coffee.

 

“How much have the police explained to you, Mr. Holmes?”  Mrs. Van Tassel asked, looking worried.

 

Sherlock did not want to admit that he was not, officially, given the case. The only reason he even had the file was that one constable believed in his work enough to bring it to him.  The man had not seen the harm in bringing him the file of a case that they had thrown out.

 

“Only that the three were slain in open ground, their heads found severed from their bodies.”

 

“Hmm.”  Father Steenwyck looked at him gravely.  “Their heads were not found severed.  Their heads were not found at all.”

 

“The heads are… gone?” 

 

“Taken.  Taken by the Headless Horseman.  Taken back to Hell.”  Mr. Hardenbrook said in a grave voice.

 

“I don’t-“ Sherlock started.

 

“Perhaps you had better sit down.” Mrs. Van Tassel said to him.

 

Sherlock took a seat holding his notebook to his chest, trying not to let it show that he was spooked.  He was a scientist; he did not believe in these things.

 

“The Horseman was a Hessian mercenary sent to these shores by a German prince to keep Americans under the yoke of England. But, unlike his compatriots who came for money, the Horseman came for the love of carnage. He rode a giant black steed, named Daredevil.  He was infamous for riding his horse hard into battle, chopping off heads at full gallop. He filed his teeth down to sharp points to add to the ferocity of his appearance.

 

“The butcher finally reached his end the winter of seventy-nine, not far from here in our Western Woods.  They chopped off his head with his own sword. Even today, the Western Woods is a haunted place where even the brave will not venture.  Burying him out there had planted evil in the ground. So it has been for twenty years. But, now, the Hessian wakes. He’s on the rampage, cutting off heads where he finds them.”

 

Sherlock noticed a faint tremor in his hands, which was ridiculous, he could not seriously be afraid.  “Are you saying-” he stopped and started again.  “Is that what you believe?”

 

“Seeing is believing.”  Mr. Hardenbrook tuned to face him completely and, for the first time, Sherlock saw that his right eye was dead. 

 

“They tell me you’ve brought books and trappings of scientific investigation.  This is the only book I recommend you read.”  Father Steenwyck reached behind himself and picked up a large, old leather-bound book.  He set it on the table next to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock looked over at the title. The Holy Bible, he should have known. Still, he opened the cover to glance at the family tree.

 

“I see, Reverend Steenwyck.  Gentlemen, madam.  Murder needs no ghost to come from the grave.  We have murders in New York without the benefit of ghouls and goblins.”

 

“You’re a long way from New York, Mr. Holmes.” Mrs. Van Tassel said in a cool tone.

 

“The assassin is a person of flesh and blood, and I will discover them.”  Sherlock stood haughtily in front of the elders, confident in what he was saying.

 

 

\-----

 

 

In the morning, Sherlock hired a horse. The village was spread out over many miles and he would need to be able to travel to the Western Woods as well if he was going to be able to put the idea of a headless horseman to rest.

 

Mr. Killian, a local he had been directed to, led out a black and grey horse that looked a little past its prime.   “His name’s Gunpowder.”

 

“He should do just fine, Mr. Killian.” Sherlock gave him a false but reassuring smile.  ‘What on earth have I gotten myself into,’ he wondered.

 

“Good luck, sir.  If you need help, just call my name.”  Killian puffed out his chest and looked very proud of himself.

 

“Right.”  Sherlock nodded.

 

A gunshot erupting in the distance startled Sherlock. He looked out to where the watchtower had been the night before.  There were only charred remains left.

 

“Murder!  The horseman’s killed again!”  A man bellowed before riding off into the woods.

 

“All right Gunpowder, we’re off.” Sherlock said excitedly. He tried to mount the horse, but found it harder than he remembered.  It took him a few tries before he finally got astride the horse; after which, he had to convince it to walk in the direction he wanted it to.

 

He listened to Mr. Killian mount his horse and take off.  Not to be outdone, Sherlock took a calming breath and steered Gunpowder around.  The horse finally obeyed and he raced after Mr. Killian.

 

“Good horsie.”  Sherlock smiled down at Gunpowder, hoping the beast would not throw him off.

 

Killian and he rode into the woods until they came across a small group standing on a path.   “It’s all right.  I’m here.” He called to them, striding up on his horse mostly because he had forgotten how to get down. He dismounted ungracefully, his bag of equipment clattering to the ground.  When he had gathered his things, he walked towards the group and the body.

 

The body lay in the middle of the path on its back, its arms folded over its chest.  Its head was cut off, but nowhere to be seen.

 

“The fourth victim, Jonathan Masbath.” Mr. Philipse said grimly.

 

“I see.”  Sherlock looked down at the corpse, realizing he was finally going to be allowed to perform his experiments.  He was utterly thrilled and terrified.  “The head?” He asked.

 

“Taken.”  Dr. Lancaster said mater-of-factly.

 

“Taken,” he repeated back.  “Interesting.  Very interesting.”  He mumbled.

 

“What is?” Mrs. Van Tassel asked, her voice thick with worry.

 

Sherlock spun around to address them, moving his hands around as he spoke.  “In headless corpse cases of this sort, the head is removed to prevent identification of the body.”

 

“But we know this was Jonathan Masbath.” Mrs. Van Tassel looked at him, clearly confused.

 

“Precisely, so why was the head removed?” Sherlock gestured to her, noticing her son standing a step behind her, watching with a look of fascination.

 

He turned away from John, walked up to Mr. Philipse, and looked him in the eye.  “You moved the body?”

 

“I did.”  He calmly replied.

 

“You must never move the body!”

 

“Why not?”  Philipse asked shocked.

 

“Because.”  He had read why in a book but could not remember at the moment. Sherlock stared down his nose at him then set his bag down to the side of the path. 

 

He scanned the ground for clues and noticed hoof marks. He followed them a few paces, trying to see if he could measure the length of each stride compared to his own.

 

“The stride is gigantic.”  He looked at the ground again, envisioning what had happened in his head.   “The attacker rode Masbath down, turned his horse around, and came back to claim the head.”

 

The people watching looked at him with a mixture of amazement and bemusement.  It was clear they had never seen anyone like him before. 

 

He reached into his bag and pulled his tower of vials out.  He poured some of the powder he had picked on the ground below the corpse’s wound.  “Yes.  There is a reaction. It shows that there was a powerful, singular thrust to the neck.” 

 

Sherlock pulled out his magnification spectacles and strapped them on.  He got close to the neck wound and was pulling back part of the flesh when a large beetle crawled out.

 

“What is it?”  Mrs. Van Tassel asked.  She looked as if her nerves were threadbare and she did not want to admit it.

 

“The wound was cauterized in the very instant,” he paused to take a breath, “as though the blade itself were red-hot. And yet, no blistering, no scorched flesh.”

 

The crowd looked nervous when he looked back at them.

 

“The Devil’s fire.” Dr. Lancaster whispered to Mr. Philipse.

 

 

\-----

 

 

With Sherlock’s experiments done, the body was taken for immediate burial.  Apparently, someone had been digging the plot as soon as news spread of Jonathan Masbath’s death.

 

The whole town was there, the Van Tassels standing at the head of the grave, arm-in-arm.  The other elders also stood at the front.  Masbath’s son stood by the reverend.  Sherlock noticed that people mostly clustered with others of their class.   The lower class, whom would have known the victim best, were located at the back. Sherlock had come mostly to see the town’s people and to show them that he could be trusted. That he felt their pain, even if he did not.

 

Sherlock looked from face to face. The unmoving face of the son who stared grimly into his father’s grave.  John, the man who had kissed him the night before, looking solemn but full of feeling, stood next to the woman, Mary, who was pretending to cry so he would hold her arm.  Many people looked grim and tired, as if they had seen too many deaths to care.

 

The service ended, but Sherlock remained to watch everyone depart.  He got a few odd looks, but, mostly, people ignored him.  He saw Masbath’s son still standing by the grave, but thought it best to leave him to grieve.

 

“Mr. Holmes, sir.” 

 

Sherlock turned around to see young Masbath running to catch up with him.  “Young Masbath.”

 

“I was young Masbath, now I’m the only one. Billy Masbath, at your service. Honor bound to avenge my father.” He looked up at Sherlock like a puppy begging for rescue.

 

“Well, Billy Masbath, I thank you very much.” Sherlock was not a child-minder. This boy was hardly twelve. “But-”

 

“You have no one to serve you. I am your man, sir.” The boy looked at him desperately.

 

Sherlock looked him up and down; mother dead, no siblings or other relatives in the area.  His father was all he had had.  “Brave, but I cannot be the one to look after you.  I’m sorry for your loss, young Mr. Masbath.”  He awkwardly patted him on the shoulder and walked away.

 

Mr. Philipse walked into his path and stopped his exit from the cemetery.

 

“Mr. Holmes, there’s something you should know.”

 

Sherlock leaned in to hear him better.

 

“Jonathan Masbath was not the fourth victim, but the fifth.”

 

“The fifth?’  Sherlock looked past him, trying to work it out like a riddle.

 

“Aye.  Five victims in four graves.”  Then Mr. Philipse hurried off as if he had been frightened.

 

Sherlock looked at the graves and realized there was a lot of work to be done. He would need help.

 

“Billy Masbath!” 

 

The young man turned from his father’s grave to look at him. 

 

“Find a place in the Van Tassel’s servants’ quarters. Wake me before dawn. I hope you have a strong stomach“

 

 

\--------

 

 

The next morning, he had all the victims dug up so that he could look into their coffins.  There was only one body in each as far as he could see.  He kept repeating Mr. Philipse’s words to himself. “Five victims, four graves,” as he checked each coffin.  

 

“What does that mean?”

 

Sherlock looked up to see John Van Tassel standing at the other end of the coffin watching him.

 

“Five victims, four graves.”  He repeated, watching the man.

 

John looked down at the bodies, seemingly unaffected by the smell or violence to their bodies.  “How can you not see a body?”  John asked, looking up at him.

 

Sherlock looked at the widow Winship. He quickly bent down and checked her coffin when he noticed a mark on her abdomen that looked like she had been stabbed.

 

“That’s it!”  He smiled up at John.  “Bring her body to the doctor’s, I’ll perform an autopsy immediately.”

 

 

The doctor was not pleased to see them, nor was he pleased to have a corpse on his operating table.  He was even less thrilled when Sherlock kicked him out and took over the room so he could work alone. 

 

The autopsy went mostly as planned.   It was his first on a human, and he constantly had to refer to his notes and the medical book he had found in the room.   He got more blood on him than he had planned to.  When he was done, he came out and found the whole council waiting for him.

 

He wiped his bloody hands on an even bloodier towel and looked out at them.  “I’m finished.” His eyes sought John in the crowd. He saw him across the street, leaning against a house with Mary.

 

“What, in the name of God, have you done to her?” The reverend demanded.

 

Sherlock ignored him and continued. “We are dealing with a madman.”

 

“What did you find out?  Mr. Philipse asked.

 

“The Widow Winship was with child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't like the BBC's version of Mary so mine is my own creation


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock spent the rest of his day writing up his notes about the autopsy; they would be useful for future work. Before he knew it, the sun had sunk below the horizon. He cleaned the last of the blood from himself, found Gunpowder outside, and headed back to the Van Tassel estate.

 

As he rode Gunpowder at a walk (the only speed he felt comfortable at) through the empty village, he tried to tell himself he was not afraid. There were so many sounds he was not used it. He thought he heard someone, or something, calling his name, and, as he started to cross a covered bridge over the stream which cut through the village, he started to feel as if he was being watched.

 

He stopped Gunpowder and listened, trying to compose himself. He filtered out the sounds and realized he was just listening to frogs and wind. He started moving again when he heard a second horse. He stopped Gunpowder and turned in his saddle to look behind himself. There was nothing there.

 

“Who’s there?” He called.

 

A black horse walked slowly into view at the other end of the bridge. The rider was headless, dressed in a large black jacket, and holding a carved pumpkin.

 

Fear filled Sherlock and all thoughts of reason and logic flew from his mind. He turned in his seat, kicked at Gunpowder’s sides, and hoped the horse would obey his command to run. The horse took off and they bolted into the woods, the other horse fast on their heels. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and his heart sank, realizing they were a much better rider then he was. If things got dicey, they would win.

 

The headless rider took no time in closing the gap between them, and, when Sherlock looked behind him again, he realized the pumpkin in the riders hand had a fire inside it. He knew he could not outrun them, so he stopped his horse to be better able to see them. If he could gleam any information, it might help him. His pursuer stopped a short distance away from him, held the burning pumpkin above their head, and flung it at him.

 

Too terrified to move, Sherlock was struck in the head. The headless rider rode past him as if he was no longer of consequence. From down the road, he heard laughing and someone say, ‘nice job Mary’. Sherlock realized it had all been a prank. He passed out a moment later.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock dreamed he heard a woman’s voice calling to him. She was standing in a garden of pink-leaved trees. The woman was dressed in blue and wearing a blindfold. She spun around in a circle, her arms outstretched, much as John had been the night he had met him.

 

She caught him as John had and kissed him on the cheek. When she took off her blindfold, she smiled at him. He noticed they had had the same color eyes, but he had no memory of her. 

 

He saw a vivid flash of a white wall with a red door, and then he was with the woman again. She was leading him to a fireplace holding flowers out in front of her. She motioned for him to follow and he did. She put the flowers in the fire while kneeling in front of it. She picked up a stick from the hearth and drew a strange symbol in the ash.

 

He was suddenly in a bed during a thunderstorm, the woman taking care of him. She soothed him and held up a round piece of paper with a red bird on it. The paper had strings tied to each side. She held the paper up by the string and slowly rolled them between her fingers, making the paper spin. The bird looked like it was in a cage. There was a shadow of a man at the window, and then the red door started to open.

 

Sherlock woke with a start, gasping for air and sitting up in bed. He looked around and found he was alone in his room at the Van Tassel’s house, still dressed except for his jacket. He took his candle and headed down to the kitchens for a drink of water.

 

While pouring his drink, he saw light coming from another room. He blew his candle out, set it on the table, and went to investigate. He opened the door off the kitchen and found a small parlor. Sitting on the sofa in front of the fire was John.

 

“Oh, pardon my intrusion. I saw a light.” Sherlock felt slightly embarrassed for having walked in on the man. The moment felt private for some reason. He tried to back out of the room, but John called him back.

 

“It is no intrusion. I come here to read when I can’t sleep.”

 

Sherlock nodded and stepped into the room. He watched as John hid his book under the cushion so he could not see what he had been reading. He walked the long way around the sofa, sliding his hand along the back of it, and then stood to the far side of it.

 

“To read books which you must hide?”

 

“They were my father’s. My mother believes I need a certain amount of ignorance to be a good son and husband. She believes curiosity killed my father.” He smiled sadly at the fire. “He died two years ago midwinter. The nurse who cared for him during his illness is now Lord Van Tassel.”

 

Sherlock looked John over. It was clear the man was intelligent and that his mother feared that. Perhaps she worried her son would try to take her position of power away from her. John also seemed like a gentle-natured person whose last thought would be to usurp his mother. 

 

“There was something else too.” Not knowing how to handle the emotional conversation, Sherlock switched it to work. “Why did no one think to mention that the Van Garretts are kin to the Van Tassels?”

 

John looked surprised by the question. “Because there is hardly a household in Sleepy Hollow that is not connected to every other by blood or marriage.”

 

Sherlock nodded, disappointed by the answer. “I see.” He moved to the window and looked out of it.

 

John joined him. “This land we’re looking at was Van Garrett land.” John turned and sat on the windowsill, looking at Sherlock. “Given to my parents when I was baby. The Van Garretts were the richest family around these parts. When my mother brought us to Sleepy Hollow, Van Garrett set us up with an acre and a broken-down cottage.

 

“My parents worked hard, prospered, and built this house. I owe my happiness to them.” John looked past Sherlock for a moment. “I remember living in the cottage. Should I show you?”

 

“Yes.” As John spoke, Sherlock realized he was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. His light blond hair shimmered in the firelight and his blue eyes seemed to glow. Sherlock felt like a smudge compared to him with his dark hair and his black clothing.

 

John reached into his jacket and produced a small book. He held it out to Sherlock smiling. “Take this. It is my gift for you.” John held a book titled A compendium of Spells, Charms and Devices of the Spirit World, out to him. 

 

“I have not use for it.” Sherlock tried not to show how little he thought of such things. He did not want to insult the man.

 

John smirked. “Are you so certain of everything?

 

Sherlock looked unimpressed but took the book. He opened the cover and found two names written inside, Elliott Van Tassel and John Van Tassel.

 

“It was your fathers.” He looked at John, shocked by the sentiment of the gift.

 

“Keep it close to your heart. It is sure to protect against harm.”

 

Sherlock studied the man in front of him, suddenly not so sure he had him figured out. “Are you so certain of everything?” He asked quietly.

 

John smiled.

 

\-----

 

The next morning, the two of them headed out to see the cottage. John warned him not to expect much. It had not been much when he had lived there, and time had done a lot of damage to the place. They had to wait until John’s mother was distracted before John snuck out. It appeared she kept her son on a very tight leash.

 

Even though it was mid-morning by the time they reached what was left of the structure, the sun was hardly out. There was a heavy mist that seemed to block out all the light and made it seem as if it was always dawn or late evening.

 

Sherlock had gotten better at dismounting his horse, so he did not embarrass himself this time. John, it seemed, was a natural rider and slipped off his horse with so much grace it made Sherlock’s best attempt look shoddy.

 

They were walking towards the structure when John stumbled. Sherlock reached out and took his hands in his. They looked at each other for a moment, and then John turned Sherlock’s hands over and peered at them.

 

“These are strange markings. What are they?”

 

Sherlock looked down at where John was rubbing his thumbs over his palms. The insides of his hands were covered in evenly spaced pinpoint scars.

 

“I’ve had them since I can remember.” They seemed so normal to him that he forgot he had them.

 

John brought his palms up and kissed them. Then he looked up at him and smiled. Sherlock felt himself smile back.

 

They walked through what was left of the door to the one-room cottage. Sherlock stayed a step behind John, watching where he walked, looking for clues to John’s character. John went to the hearth and knelt in front of it. It was the most intact portion left of the structure.

 

“I used to play by this hearth as a child. It was the warmest place in the house.”

 

Sherlock watched as John picked up a stick and started drawing in the dirt.

 

“It was my first drawing school, and my father was my teacher.”

 

Sherlock watched as John drew a symbol a lot like the one from his dream. He was glad John’s back was to him so he could not see his surprise.

 

“Look, carved into the fire back? The Archer. I’d forgotten it.”

 

Sherlock moved away and took a deep breath. He felt like he was panicking, he could not even look at John. He took several deep breaths to calm himself.

 

“This was from long before we lived here.” John paused in his story. “Are you all right?”

 

Sherlock turned back to him, his face back under control. “Yes, thank you.”

 

A bird chirped nearby drawing the attention of both of them.

 

“A cardinal. My favorite.” John said, looking in the direction of the noise. 

 

Sherlock looked at a tree next to the run-down house and saw a red cardinal sitting in it.

 

“I’d love to have a tame one, but I wouldn’t have the heart to cage him.”

 

Sherlock smiled and walked towards John. “Well then, I have something for you.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and held out his paper trick. 

 

He held the round piece of paper up so John could see it. “Cardinal on one side. An empty cage on the other. and now-”He twirled the string on either side of the paper to make it spin. 

 

John’s face opened up in delight as he watched the free cardinal become caged.

 

“You can do magic. Teach me.”

 

Sherlock felt himself smiling back. “It is no magic. It is what we call optics, separate pictures, which become one in the spinning. It is truth, but truth is not always appearance.”

 

John looked less impressed with his explanation than he had hoped.

 

\-----

 

That night, Sherlock went to Mr. Philipse’s house to talk with him. On his way, he found the council at Dr. Lancaster’s. He could not hear what they were saying, but he knew they were arguing. He watched as Mr. Philipse left with a large cart that looked like it was carrying all of his possessions.

 

Sherlock went back for Gunpowder and followed Mr. Philipse. He found him on the road out of town.

 

“What are you running from, Magistrate Philipse?” Sherlock dismounted and stood on the road in front of him.

 

“Damn you, Holmes!”

 

“You had a mind to help me.”

 

“Yes, and it’s put me in mortal dread.” The man kept walking, so Sherlock walked alongside him.

 

“Of what?’ Sherlock demanded.

 

“Of powers against which there is no defense.”

 

Sherlock knew there was no stopping the man, so he would have to get as much information out of him as he could before he left. 

 

“How did you know the Widow Winship was expecting a child?”

 

“She told me.” Mr. Philipse said flatly.

 

“Are you the father?”

 

Mr. Philipse shook his head. “No.”

 

“Did she tell you the name of the child’s father?” Sherlock pressed.

 

“Yes, she did. She came to me for advice as town magistrate to protect the rights of her child. I was bound by the oath of my office to keep the secret, but-“

 

“Do you believe the father killed her?”

 

“The horseman killed her.” Mr. Philipse said in an exasperated voice.

 

Sherlock sighed. “How often do I have to tell you there is no horseman!?” The sky flickered and lightning appeared over the woods near them. 

 

He saw that Mr. Philipse was clutching something in his hand and reached for it. “What is that thing?”

 

Mr. Philipse snatched it back. “My talisman. It protects me from the horseman.”

 

“You, a magistrate, and you fill your head with such nonsense.” No wonder John thought magic was real. The whole village did, it seemed. “Tell me the name of-“

 

A heard of sheep came rushing at them, bleating as they went by. They seemed to be running from something. Sherlock noticed the storm was getting worse, thunder and lightning filling the sky overhead.

 

A horse whinnied in the distance. Mr. Philipse looked rattled.

 

“Oh, my god!” He took off, running as fast as he could, abandoning his horse and his things.

 

Sherlock looked into the woods for what might have spooked him. Out of the darkness came a headless rider on a black horse. It pulled a sword from its sheath as it went. 

 

The rider rode right past Sherlock as if he was not even there, and rode up to Mr. Philipse. He chopped Philipse’s head off with one swipe of his sword. The head rolled down towards Sherlock who scrambled to get away from it. It landed at his feet. Sherlock looked down at the terrified face of the magistrate, then up at the rider who was coming closer to him.

 

Sherlock was too stunned to move. He sat there as the rider rode past him, not pausing as he stuck his sword into the top of Mr. Philipse’s head before taking off into the woods. 

 

\-----

 

Sherlock lay in his bed in the Van Tassel’s house, his knees drawn up to his chest, blankets held up to his chin. A knock at the door startled him, making him draw the blankets up to his nose as he pressed himself against the wall of the room.

 

“Mr. Holmes?” A voice called from the other side of the door.

 

There was murmured talking for a few minutes that Sherlock strained to hear. The door opened and Mrs. Van Tassel entered, followed by John and Billy.

 

“It was a headless horseman.” Sherlock stuttered, looking at them desperately.

 

“You must not excite yourself.” Mrs. Van Tassel said softly.

 

“But it was a headless horseman.” Sherlock half shouted. Which was impossible, yet he had seen it.

 

“Of course.” Mrs. Van Tassel smiled at him. “That’s why you’re here.”

 

He looked at John, who stood behind his mother, watching him carefully. The man looked worried.

 

“I know.” Mrs. Van Tassel said, trying to pacify him

 

“You were not there!” Sherlock shouted. “It’s all true, but it can’t be.” He pulled the blanket back up to hide under.

 

“Of course it is. Everyone told you.” Mrs. Van Tassel looked at him as if he were a child having something very simple explained to him. 

 

Sherlock looked past her at John. “I saw him.” He felt darkness coming over him again and passed out.

 

Sherlock was dreaming about the woman again. She was in a garden waiting for him. She reached out her hands to him and he took them. They spun around in a circle, smiling at one another. Then, he let go and fell into the soft earth, watching her float up into the air, still spinning.

 

He was in a house, hiding, while a man who frightened him took the woman by the hair and forced her to look at the hearth. He was angry and violent. The man took hold of her again and forced her out of the house. He was making the woman walk down a long hallway. At the end was a white wall with a red door. He saw the man’s face in front of his, then a strange metal box in the shape of a human. His mind overloaded, unable to take it and he woke himself.

 

Sherlock woke with a gasp and flung off his blankets. He dressed quickly, and started thinking about what his next course of action should be. Absentmindedly, he spun his paper trick between his fingers. He knew what he should do, but he just really did not want to do it. 

 

When Sherlock left his room, he heard the sound of voices. It seemed the counsel was talking about getting better help than he could provide them. He positioned himself at the top of the stairs so they could all see him.

 

“This time it’s a magistrate that’s dead-” Mrs. Van Tassel said to the others.

 

“Everyone, I need able-bodied people to go with me into the Western Woods.” Sherlock called.

 

The counsel, John, Mr. Van Tassel, and the Van Tassels´ servant Sam all looked up at him. A few looked amazed to see him.

 

“You? We thought you’d have left.” Mrs. Van Tassel looked very astonished. 

 

Sherlock looked down at them, trying to appear as confident as possible. “I have faced my fears, and come out resolute to locate the horsemen’s grave.” He slowly sauntered down the stairs, making sure they were all watching him. “In short, to prove there is no murdering ghost.”

 

Mr. Van Tassel looked alarmed and moved to hover over John. 

 

“It could be dangerous.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered over to John. “Who’s with me?”

 

No one moved or said anything for a long, awkward moment.

 

“Me.” Came a soft voice from the top of the stairs.

 

Sherlock looked up and saw Billy Masbath quietly holding his hand up.

 

\-----

 

With no other volunteers, Billy and Sherlock headed out into the Western Woods alone. It would have been better for morale, and in case something dangerous happened, to have more people, but Sherlock often found that having too many people tended to cause more trouble than help. He had explained this to Billy, but he did not think the boy believed him.

 

“The Van Garretts, the Widow Winship, your father, Jonathan Masbath, and now, Philipse. Something must connect them.” Sherlock pondered for a moment. “Did your father have dealings with the Van Garretts?”

 

“He worked for them. We lived in the coach house.” Billy said, as if this was of no interest. “It’s nothing.” He said when Sherlock gave him a look. 

 

Sherlock watched the boy’s expression. He suddenly looked thoughtful as if he was remembering something.

 

“There was something that happened a week before the murder. There was an argument between the father and son. My father was later sent for by Mr. Van Garrett.”

 

‘An argument between father and son.’ Sherlock thought, mulling it over. ‘After which, the elder Van Garrett sent for his servant Masbath.’

 

“Listen.” Billy said, interrupting his thought.

 

Sherlock looked at him. “I hear nothing.”

 

“Exactly. No birds, no crickets, it’s all gone quiet.”

 

Sherlock looked at the young boy, impressed that he had caught on to something he, himself, had missed. He looked around them and realized the woods they were in were unnaturally calm. He quickened the pace of his horse.

 

Listening carefully, Sherlock heard a humming coming from farther in the woods. He led Billy until he found a cave. The voice was louder now, and Sherlock was certain that whoever was in the woods with them, were in there. They both dismounted their horses and tied them to trees a short walking distance away from the cave opening.

 

They walked forward, at first side-by-side. Sherlock slowly fell a step behind Billy. He pulled his revolver out, standing behind Billy, forcing him to lead the way into the cave. Surprisingly, they found a wooden door just inside its entrance. Billy pushed it open and stepped inside. Sherlock had to duck his head as he entered the dark room.

 

The walls were hung with the pelts and skeletons of animals. Dried flowers, reeds and grass hung in bushels. A table stood nearby, covered in gourds, dead insects, knives, scissors, and yellowing bones. 

 

Sitting in a rocking chair by a fire, facing away from them, was a person.

 

“Pardon our intrusion.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I was hoping you could help us.”

 

“You’re from the hollow.” A soft male voice asked.

 

“Yes, in a way.” He looked around the room again and swallowed. “I will say I make no assumptions about your occupation. Nor your ways witch, which-” Sherlock stuttered and tried to compose himself. “Which are nothing to me, whatever you are. It’s all fine.”

 

The man placed a dead red cardinal on the table next to his chair. It bothered Sherlock more than it should have. It was John’s favorite bird. They may have been looking at that exact one just yesterday. He did not have a proper response for seeing the dead bird, so he said nothing.

 

The man stood, showing he was in a tattered suit and was wearing a veil to cover his face. He walked towards them and stopped two feet in front of them.

 

“Do you know the horseman, sir?’ Billy asked, his voice quivering slightly. “The Hessian?”

 

The man made a slicing sound and drew a finger over his throat.

 

“That will be him.” Billy’s voice found more strength as he spoke.

 

Sherlock realized it might be best to leave, and turned Billy towards the exit. As Sherlock turned his back to the man, he took hold of Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“You, come with me.” He whispered to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock felt a shiver of fear run up his spine.

 

The man pulled him deeper into the cave. “Go out child. Keep away. Whatever you hear, keep away.”

 

Sherlock heard the sound of Billy’s rushing feet and the slamming of the door. He was sat at a table at the back of the cave. It had a large candle as well as many bones and jars full of things he did not want to think about sitting on it.

 

“What might he hear that he must keep away from?” Sherlock asked, bolstering his courage.

 

The man took the seat across from his and cuffed himself to the table. Sherlock watched, wondering what he was doing when the man suddenly reached across the table at him. His reach was too short with his arms bound to touch him, but he pulled away from him anyway.

 

“He rides to the hollow and back. “ The man opened several of the jars, grabbing handfuls of items and placing them in front of him. 

 

Sherlock was not sure how he could tell what was what with the heavy veil over his face, but he seemed to know what he was doing.

 

“I hear him; I smell the blood on him.” The pile started to smoke.

 

“Do you?” Sherlock nodded, the need to get out of the cave as fast as he could rising with every second. “I’m here to find him and make him stop.” He tried to sound calm, but he was sure the man in front of him was mad and could murder him if he upset him.

 

The man pulled a bat out a cage and cut its head off. “You seek knowledge of the netherworld? I can show you.” He poured the blood on the smoking pile and the smoke turned purple.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

The man sniffed the air in front of himself. “Don’t move or speak. When the other comes, I will hold him.”

 

“The other?” He knew he should not have come into the cave. 

 

“Silence.” The man took a deep breath of the purple smoke. “He comes now.” 

 

He slumped in his chair as if he had passed out. Sherlock looked at him then around the room.

 

“Sir? Sir, do you hear me?” Sherlock reached across the table to shake the man when his head lifted.

 

The man’s head came up, as did the veil, revealing the face of a corpse. The skin looked grey, the eyes pure black. The man’s teeth looked like they had been filed down into fangs. The only normal thing about him was his long brown hair that hung matted around his face.

 

He growled at Sherlock, who jumped back and clutched his arms to his chest. The man lunged at him, but was stopped by his chains. He still fought against them, reaching for Sherlock with claw-like hands that had not been like that a moment ago.

 

“You seek the warrior bathed in blood, the headless horseman. Follow the old trail to where the sun dies. Follow it to the Tree of the Dead. Climb down to the horseman’s resting place.” The man suddenly looked tired and slumped on top of the table.

 

Sherlock knocked over his chair in his hurry to stand and rushed out of the cave. He found Billy standing a few feet away from the entrance.

 

“We’re leaving.” He called out while walking hurriedly away from the cave.

 

“What happened?” Billy asked.

 

“We’re leaving now.” Sherlock said in a firm tone, hoping that would end the conversation. Billy followed him to their horses without a word, and did not say anything as Sherlock shakily mounted Gunpowder.

 

“We take the old trail to the Tree of the Dead.” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

 

“How will we recognize it?” Billy asked, his voice showing uncertainty.

 

“Without difficulty, I rather fear.” Sherlock suppressed a shudder. “Then we climb down to the horseman’s resting place.”

 

“His camp?” Billy asked confused.

“His grave.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock and Billy rode their horses side by side at a quick pace through the woods in mutual silence. Sherlock noticed a figure on horseback farther ahead in the woods and pulled Gunpowder to a stop. Billy stopped next to him and looked at him expectantly.

 

“Stay here.” He whispered before dismounting. He crept as softly as he could through the underbrush, pulling his pistol out, ready to shoot at any moment. He tracked the movement of what looked like a white shape moving just beyond the trees.

 

He walked further into the woods away from Billy until he caught up with the shadow. Hiding behind a large tree, he found a white and grey horse with a hooded rider. Sherlock slowly snuck up behind them, gun out.

 

“Halt and turn; I have my pistol aimed.” 

 

The rider pulled their dark blue hood off their head, revealing John.

 

“John.” Sherlock whispered, warmth filling him. He lowered his gun and walked towards him. “I might have killed you. Why have you come?”

 

John smiled. “You said dangerous.”

 

Sherlock smiled back. He was now twice the man with John here. 

 

“How did you find us? These woods are impossible to traverse.”

 

“I just followed the path that felt right.”

 

“It was your white magic.”

 

John’s smile grew and he leaned down towards Sherlock who pressed up on his toes to meet him. Sherlock reached his hand out to John’s and twined their fingers as their lips pressed together. It was just a soft press of lips, but John gasped, making Sherlock want to pull him against him.

 

“Pardon my intrusion.” Billy’s voice squeaked behind them. 

 

Both John and Sherlock jumped, pulling apart everywhere except for their hands, which tightened.

 

“I think you’d better come and look at this.”

 

As Billy led them to what he had found, he looked over at Sherlock a few times out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Speak if you have something to say, young Masbath.” Sherlock said sharply.

 

Billy blushed and looked forward. “I just want you to know that I won’t tell anyone.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked at him.

 

“I don’t want you to get into trouble, so I won’t tell anyone.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, Billy.” He turned in his seat to look at John and nodded. John sighed, looking like a weight had been lifted from him. 

 

Billy guided them to a large, twisted tree, which grew on top of a knoll. They all slid from their horses and stood in front of the tree, gazing up at it.

 

“The Tree of the Dead.” Billy whispered.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and walked up to it, looking for an entrance. He pressed his fingers into the bark and they came away bloody.

 

“Blood.” He muttered, trying to calm himself for what he would have to do next. He went back to Gunpowder and got his hatchet. If there were not an entrance already, he would have to make one. “Stay where you are.” He mumbled to John and Billy as he walked by them. He tried to gesture for them to stay back, but his hand just flopped about. He was under too much stress.

 

He started hacking at some of the exposed root. Immediately blood seeped from the split he had made in the wood. The more he hit the roots, the more blood gushed out, some of it even flying up onto his jacket and his face.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself before he could keep working. He would not give up just because of a little blood. The blood spilled onto him to the point where he had to keep his mouth pressed firmly shut so as not to taste it. 

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked to his side to see John beside him. He had taken off his cloak and jacket before rolling up his sleeves. John bent down and pulled at some of the roots Sherlock had cut, tossing them to the side for Sherlock.

 

“What is it?” Billy asked from his position by the horses.

 

“Just stay where you are. Don’t move.” John called out, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder at Billy.

 

John and Sherlock looked at each and nodded. Sherlock bent down and reached into the hole they had made, pulling at a heavy layer of bark. He handed it to John and looked in to see the heads of all the victims crammed inside the tree. Sherlock shouted, and then immediately froze in horror. He felt a hand on his face, turning him so he was not looking anymore, and saw John, white as snow, standing next to him, breathing heavily while holding Sherlock’s face with his bloody hands. They looked at each other and John let go, giving him an apologetic smile.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“No, thank you. I needed help.”

 

They both stepped away from the tree and pulled out their handkerchiefs to wipe the blood from their hands and Sherlock from his face.

 

Sherlock looked back up at the tree and walked partway around it. “This tree is a gateway, a gateway between two worlds.” He noticed a sword stuck into the tree partway up the knoll, and climbed up to it, standing by the tree roots to get a better look at it. “The ground up here has been disturbed. The soil is loose! Bring the shovel.”

 

“Sherlock, timing.” John gave him a look that told him that he thought it was a very bad idea at the moment and motioned towards Billy, who was sitting on his haunches looking sick and depressed. 

 

Sherlock did not have time to deal with mourning; the horseman could rise again and kill at any moment. They needed answers now.

 

John and he traded off digging up the grave since Billy was not in any shape to help. He kept looking at where the heads were being stored and shaking his own. When Sherlock finally reached the horseman’s remains, it had grown dark. He clambered out of the grave and knelt on the side of it for a better look.

 

“The skull is gone- taken.” He called to John who was minding Billy, worried the boy would be traumatized for life. “That is why the horseman returned from the grave. To take heads till his own is restored to him.”

 

Lightning and thunder filled the sky.

 

“Sherlock?” John called, sounding frightened.

 

Inside the grave, the bones of the horseman were growing flesh. Sherlock stood so he could look over the edge of the tree to see what John and Billy were looking at. 

 

Out of the hole he and John had made in the tree, a black horse complete with headless rider jumped, landing perfectly in the clearing next to the tree.

 

John raised the musket Billy had brought with them and held it up aimed at the horseman, ready if he moved against them. Instead, the horseman rode off into the wood in the direction of Sleepy Hollow.

 

Sherlock jumped down from his place on the tree and ran up to Gunpowder, scrambling to mount her as fast as he could. He took off, chasing after the horseman at full speed.

 

He chased the horseman until he lost him amongst the trees. He stopped Gunpowder and looked around him, wondering where the rider could have gone.

 

He made it back to Sleepy Hollow after getting lost once and found Mary trying to duel with the horseman. He jumped off his horse and tried to stop her. She was already gravely wounded.

 

“Wait! He’s not after you.” Sherlock shouted as he rushed towards her.

 

“I’ll get him!” Mary cringed as she moved. She looked so determined, as though nothing could stop her.

 

Mary did her best with hand-to-hand combat against the rider, but he was too good, even after Sherlock joined in the fray, they were no match.

 

“We cannot win this.” Sherlock yelled, pulling Mary away from the fight.

 

Mary finally saw sense and followed him in running away. They headed over to the covered bridge, Sherlock sure that once they gave up the fight the horseman would too. Then he heard heavy footsteps behind them. They both turned around to see if they were being followed, but no one was there. The footsteps continued. They looked up and realized he was above them. 

 

They looked at one another, and then Mary looked behind them. She screamed as they both turned around. The horseman stabbed Sherlock in the shoulder, knocking him aside. Sherlock watched as Mary lifted her weapon and tried to fight the horseman off.

 

Sherlock tried to get up, but the pain was too much. He watched while Mary fended the horsemen off. She was a skilled fighter, but it was clear the horsemen had her beat. He cut her in half as if it where nothing and left her body on the bridge. The shock of seeing something so violent caused Sherlock to pass out.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock woke violently in his bed in the Van Tassels house. Dr. Lancaster was seated next to him, looking at his wounded shoulder, Mrs. Van Tassel standing behind, looking down at him.

 

“You must be still.” Dr. Lancaster said softly, putting a hand on his chest to press him back down to the bed. “The fever is on you.”

 

“John.” He whispered, pain wracking his body.

 

The door opened and John walked in, holding a glass. He sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed.

 

“John, I tried to stop Mary, but-“

 

John placed a hand on his forehead, soothing his fever. “Shh. Drink this down. It’ll help you sleep.”

 

“The horseman was not set to kill Mary, nor me. If Mary had not attacked him-“

 

“Later; rest now.” Mrs. Van Tassel said over her son’s shoulder.

 

Sherlock took John by the wrist, trying to make him listen. “I’ve discovered something; the horseman does not kill at random, his victims are chosen by someone who controls him.”

 

Mrs. Van Tassel and Dr. Lancaster looked at each other in a suspicious manner, but since Sherlock’s head was so full of fever, he did not have time to really see it before the look was gone.

 

“By the very person who took his skull, someone who knew where to dig. Someone of flesh and blood, as I’ve always said.”

 

Mrs. Van Tassel smiled. “These are ravings.”

 

John looked upset, as if he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue. Instead, he squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Drink.”

 

Knowing that at least John believed him, he accepted the glass and drank from it. As he fell asleep, he noticed Mr. Van Tassel emerge out of the shadows and step towards his wife. 

 

\-----

 

Sherlock now saw that the white wall with the red door was, in fact, an entire white room. It looked like a chapel. The frightening man came out of the red door and walked towards him. He was dressed all in black. He seemed to walk through Sherlock. The man left the chapel and Sherlock headed to the red door. Inside, he found a torture chamber. He walked by all sorts of horrible devices no child should ever see. He heard a voice calling to him from the iron maiden. As he looked more closely, he saw there was a slit where the eyes should be and there were a familiar pair of eyes looking out at him; they looked terrified.

 

He jumped back and he braced himself on a chair covered in spikes. He looked at his hands and saw neat little bleeding pinpoints in his hands. The metal statue opened and the body of the woman he had been dreaming about fell out in a waterfall of blood.

 

Sherlock jolted awake, right into John’s arms. The man pulled him tight against him and held him; rubbing soothing circles on his back. Sherlock returned the hug, burying his face into the crook of John’s neck.

 

“It’s alright. You were dreaming.” John soothed.

 

“Yes.” Sherlock breathed in John’s scent, trying to relax himself. “Things I had forgotten.” He looked at the pinpoint scars on his hands. It was all real. “And would not like to remember.”

 

“Tell me what you dreamt.”

 

“My mother was an innocent, a child of nature. Condemned. Murdered by my older brother because he thought she would ruin his career. He said it was to save her soul, but he just wanted into a group of bible-black tyrants. I was seven when I lost my faith and my last parent. My brother sent me off to school, and I haven’t seen him since.”

 

John pulled away so they could look at each other. “What do you believe in?”

 

“Sense and reason, cause and consequence.” He sighed, looking away from John. “I should not have come to this place where my rational mind has been so controverted by the spirit world.”

 

“Will you take nothing from Sleepy Hollow that was worth coming here for?” John’s voice was soft and sounded hurt.

 

Sherlock looked at him. “No.”

 

Sherlock saw the hurt in John’s eyes even as he tried to hide it.

 

“No, not nothing, a kiss from a lovely young man before he saw my face or knew my name. And a second kiss when I needed to be brave.”

 

John smiled. “Why not make it three?”

 

Sherlock leaned into John and cupped his face with one hand. He started by just pressing his lips against John’s, but John opened his lips slightly against his so he deepened the kiss. They softly kissed each other for a while and Sherlock resisted the temptation to push the man onto his back in bed with him. Sherlock finally ended the kiss and smiled at John and his slightly swollen lips.

 

“Don’t stop.” John whispered, pulling him closer.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

 

John nodded.

 

He leaned in and kissed John’s neck, then along his jaw until he found his lips again. Slowly he leaned back, pulling John with him.

 

John shed his jacket over the side of the bed and climbed in. 

 

They looked at each other, unsure of what to do.

 

‘Touch me.” John murmured against his lips, kissing him again.

 

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s waist.

 

“Lower.” John took his hand and placed it over his cock.

 

Sherlock looked at him, wondering if he was serious. 

 

“Don’t you want to?” John tensed, pulling back.

 

“I do.” Sherlock pulled him back against him. “Lord, I do.” 

 

John smiled. “Then touch me and I’ll give you something special.”

 

Sherlock shivered in anticipation. He opened John’s trousers and pulled them down along with John’s pants so he could easily get to his cock. He stroked him slowly, feeling the weight of him in his hand. John was very expressive, and he enjoyed pulling different sounds from him.

 

John took Sherlock’s free hand, slipped two of his fingers into his mouth, and sucked on them.

 

Sherlock’s cock hardened at the sight.

 

John took the fingers he had sucked on and placed them on his arse. “Put them inside me.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. One first, then two, move them in and out of me”

 

Sherlock did as told and watched new, even better, expressions on John’s face. When he had both his fingers in John, he felt the other man start to rut against his legs. He figured the man was going to cum, so he tightened his grip on John’s cock and quickened his stroke. John moaned and went still against him. He felt his emission on his hand.

 

Sherlock’s britches suddenly felt very tight.

 

“Relax.” John said softly before ducking under the covers

 

Sherlock looked under as John pulled his cock out of his trousers and slipped it into his mouth. “Of all that is Holy!” The feeling was better than anything he had ever experienced. John’s mouth went up and down on his cock until he felt his balls tighten. “John... John, I’m going to.” Before he could say anything else, he came.

 

He heard coughing under the sheets and looked to see John spitting his seed into his handkerchief.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“It’s fine.” He crawled back up and lay next to him.

 

“Perhaps there is a bit of a witch in you, John.”

 

John looked at him nervously. “Why do you say that?”

 

“Because you have bewitched me.”

 

John smiled at him and pulled him against him. Sherlock embraced John, feeling comforted by holding him, but also worried by how reassuring it was.

 

When Sherlock woke again, it was to Mr. Van Tassel sitting by his bed. He was surprised and felt slightly exposed. He had fallen asleep with John holding him. Waking up to a different face made him feel uncomfortable, and reminded him of how vulnerable he was when he slept.

 

“You slept like the dead.” Mr. Van Tassel smiled at him and moved to fill a mug with wine.

 

“Your family has been to kind to me. I do not look to be served. If I must be, a servant would do fine.”

 

“Our servant, Sam, has vanished, so we have no choice.” The man’s lips curled into an off-putting smile. Sherlock noticed it did not reach his eyes.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Ran away, like so many others.” He cut an apple in half and set it on the table next to Sherlock’s bed. “They’re all leaving in fear.”

 

“Where is John?”

 

Mr. Van Tassel gave him an annoyed look. “He watched over you till dawn. Now it’s his turn to sleep.”

 

Something about the way the man spoke did not sit right with Sherlock, but he ignored it for the moment. He had too many other things to think about.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock lay in bed for a while getting his strength back. When Billy entered, he sat up, feeling stiff from lying down so long. He pressed his hand to his stab wound as he pushed himself to sitting, a dull pain still lingering in his shoulder. 

 

Billy filled the basin on his dressing table with water and looked at him eagerly.

 

“I’m fit for another day I think. Fit enough, at least, to face a mortal adversary.” He quickly washed and changed as Billy gathered his notes. 

 

Sherlock scribbled notes on loose paper he had brought with him, took the notes he had gathered and spread them on the floor so he could see them all.

 

“Dr. Lancaster, Reverend Steenwyck, Notary Hardenbrook, magistrate Philipse who tried to cut and run and lost his head.” Sherlock moved all the pieces of paper with their names on it into one group. “All frightened men arguing together on the very night magistrate Philipse was killed.”

 

Billy looked at him from his seat in the corner as if he did not understand his line of thought. It did not really matter; Sherlock just enjoyed talking aloud. Having Billy in the room made him seem less mad.

 

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and took to pacing the room.

 

“There is conspiracy here.” He wrote ‘conspiracy’ in his notebook. “What is this secret that unites them? Magistrate Philipse knew there were five bodies to four graves. He knew the widow was pregnant. He could not tell me the name of the father. What does this point to?”

 

Sherlock looked at Billy who looked startled to suddenly be involved in the conversation. Sherlock looked away again before the boy opened his mouth to talk.

 

“We must proceed by a process of elimination. I shall make a list of every man and woman in Sleepy Hollow, starting with its chief citizen, Bertha Van Tassel.”

 

Sherlock looked smugly at Billy, feeling confident in his plan.

 

“I suppose Bertha is the chief citizen now that old Van Garrett is dead.” Billy said, his soft voice breaking Sherlock’s concentration.

 

“Yes, the Van Garretts. I’d almost forgotten them.” Sherlock scolded himself. He found the old bible the reverend had given him his first night and looked at the family tree.

 

“Come with me.” Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

 

“Where?” Billy said, getting to his feet.

 

“To Notary Hardenbrook’s.”

 

“Have you thought of something?

 

“Yes, I have.” Sherlock said triumphantly.

 

They rushed through the village where panic had set in. People were loading up carts with whatever they could carry and were quickly buying supplies at the general store.

 

They arrived at Notary Hardenbrook’s office, which was in a shabby looking building in the middle of town. The windows looked like they had not been washed in years, and the front door was unlocked. Inside, they found it was full of stacks of papers left haphazardly around. There did not seem to be a surface that did not have something on it.

 

“Hopeless.” Was all Sherlock could think. He started shifting though papers, but without any sort of system, there was no way they were going to find anything.

 

“My father’s satchel. Why is it here?”

 

Sherlock looked over from the cupboard he was about to open to see Billy picking up a leather satchel. He opened the cupboard and found Notary Hardenbrook cowering inside. He gasped, and then calmed himself when he realized the man was still alive.

 

“Leave me alone.” Mr. Hardenbrook scowled at Sherlock.

 

“Notary Hardenbrook!” Sherlock said sternly, feeling like he was reprimanding a child for hiding before bedtime.

 

“Leave me alone!” The notary left the cupboard, took one of the old empty seats in the cluttered office, and curled in on himself.

 

“As soon as you show me the last will and testament of old man Van Garrett.”

 

Mr. Hardenbrook looked at him nervously. “The will leaves everything to his son.”

 

“Who died with him! So the estate passes to the next of kin.”

 

“Naturally, all legal and above board.”

 

“Sir?” Billy called.

 

Sherlock turned to see Billy pulling papers out of the leather satchel he had been going on about. He held up one that had a large red wax seal.

 

Notary Hardenbrook looked terrified. “I’m a dead man.”

 

Sherlock took the paper from Billy and read it over. “Van Garrett’s seal. Broken.” He opened the paper and found a new will, written just before he died. “He named the widow Winship?”

 

“Here’s a marriage certificate.” Billy held the paper out to him.

 

Sherlock took it and glanced over it. “Old Van Garrett secretly married the widow, left everything to her and her unborn child.” Sherlock looked down at the notary. “So the new will stood between the Van Garrett fortune and the person who would have otherwise inherited everything.”

 

“It’s true. But we four were drawn in against our will!” Notary Hardenbrook looked at him imploringly.

 

“Your will?” Sherlock sneered.

 

“He means-” Billy started.

 

“Of course, the four town elders.” Sherlock smiled as the clues fit together. “Now I see what parts you had to play. Reverend Steenwyck knew the secret because he performed the marriage; Dr. Lancaster attended the pregnant woman; Magistrate Philipse gave protection of the law, and Notary Hardenbrook concealed the documents, which had been entrusted by Van Garrett to his faithful servant. The four conspirators drawn into the plot.”

 

Notary Hardenbrook withered in his chair, looking ashamed of himself. “We did not know it was a murdering plot.” He stood and rushed to the back of his office into another chair that was half covered with papers. They tumbled to the floor as he sat, but he seemed not to notice.

 

“But I haven’t finished sir.” Sherlock went and stood over him. “First, the Van Garrets, father and son, slain by the horseman, raised from the grave to chop off heads! Now, up pops a window with a claim on the fortune, off with her head! But, murder begets murder. It was the servant Jonathan Masbath.” He went back to the front of the office and stood by Billy.

 

“The night father and son quarreled over the new will; Jonathan Masbath was summoned upstairs to bear witness.” Sherlock showed Billy the will, where his father had signed. “Here is his signature. I’m afraid it was his death warrant, young Masbath. The horseman came for him.

 

“Came for him at the bidding of someone who had the power over him. Someone who dug in the earth in Western Woods and stole the skull! The missing head, which must be restored to the horseman before he will return to hell. Someone who stood to gain or lose a fortune! None other than Van Garrett’s next of kin, Bertha Van Tassel!”

 

\-----

 

Sherlock returned to his rooms at the Van Tassel estate to find John sitting at his desk. When he entered, John turned and smiled at him.

 

“John, why are you in my room?” He felt the same warm feeling he had the night before, but he also felt suspicious of the man and his actions. John had followed him when no one else had. He had told him private matters about himself. Had John just been gathering evidence for his mother?

 

Not seeing his suspicion John continued to sit at his desk and smile at him. “Because it is yours.”

 

Sherlock looked around the floor and noticed all his papers had been cleaned up. They were stacked in a neat pile next to John’s elbow.

 

“Was it wicked of me?” John stood, concern showing on his face.

 

“No, not at all.” He continued to look around the room, realizing that he had often found things moved when he had come back. 

 

He stepped into the room and Billy stepped in behind him. They crossed the room together, Billy always a step behind him.

 

“I missed you.” John said, looking like he could not believe he had admitted it. “Where did you go?”

 

“To the notary. I had a few question to ask Hardenbrook.”

 

“Did you learn anything of interest?” John leaned back against Sherlock’s small table.

 

Sherlock and Billy looked at each other.

 

“Perhaps.” He said, deciding not to tell John anything.

 

“My mother-“

 

“Your mother?”

 

“Yes. My mother thinks you should return to New York.” John said, looking at his hands.

 

“Really?” Sherlock puffed his chest out. “Why is that?” Sherlock walked over to his desk and stood next to John.

 

John leaned off the table and looked squarely at him. “I don’t know. Perhaps she looked in your ledger and didn’t like what she saw.”

 

Sherlock looked down at the notebook he had left open on the table. With the words, ‘conspiracy’, ‘five to four’, ‘the secret’, and at the bottom ‘points to’, ‘Bertha’. Sherlock slammed the notebook closed.

 

“What have you there?” John pointed to the papers in Sherlock’s arms.

 

“Evidence. I’m sorry, I must ask you-“

 

John put his hands up to stop him. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” He gave Sherlock a gentle bow and left the room, closing the door after himself.

 

Sherlock sighed. He hoped John had nothing to do with his mothers plot. It would be a great inconvenience to have to turn in the first person he had ever had feelings for. He looked around the room to make sure everything was still there when he saw a large black spider walking next to his bed.

 

Billy gasped and stepped on the chair next to the desk. Sherlock looked at him as if he had gone mad.

 

“It’s just a spider.”

 

“Kill it!” Billy muttered.

 

The spider crawled under his bed, out of sight. Sherlock picked up a piece of paper, intending to save the creature.

 

“No, stomp it!” Billy whined.

 

Sherlock put the paper down, lifted his blanket, and looked under his bed.

 

“There’s something under here.” Sherlock got to his feet. “Help me move the bed.” They slid the bed away from the wall, exposing a pentagram drawn in chalk on the floor, the spider crawling across it.

 

“The evil eye! Someone’s casting spells against you.” Billy said, sounding amazed and horrified.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock sat up late that night trying to plan his next move. His thoughts were disturbed by a loud thump from somewhere in the house. He woke Billy, who was asleep in the extra chair in his room, and the two of them crept downstairs in time to see a cloaked figure leaving the house.

 

They followed the figure into the apple grove at the back of the house. They walked some distance and Sherlock had to remind himself several times he needed to investigate any clue so he would not turn back for the safety of the house. Sherlock left Billy at the edge of the grove, not wanting to drag him into the woods at night.

 

Alone, he continued on, pistol out, ready for a confrontation. He found two men having sex under a large tree. His heart fell for a moment thinking it might be John. He had seemed experienced when they had been together the other night. Now that there was a lantern next to the two men, he could see the figure was wearing the same dark blue cloak that John had worn when he followed Sherlock into the Western Woods. The figures shifted, and Sherlock saw it was, in fact, Reverend Steenwyck and Mr. Van Tassel.

 

Sherlock felt momentarily relieved, then he saw Mr. Van Tassel lift a blade, it looked like he was going to stab Reverend Steenwyck in the back, but, instead, he cut along his own palm. He rubbed his cut on the Reverend’s back and over his shoulder, leaving a smear of blood behind.

 

Sherlock felt as though he had seen enough and left. He found Billy where he had left him, and the two returned to the house. Sherlock noticed his desk had been tampered with, and checked the drawer for the will and marriage certificate. They were both gone.

 

\-----

 

At dawn, Sherlock found John in the remnants of his childhood home, a small fire burning in the hearth. John sat on the ground with his back turned to him. Sherlock dismounted and entered what was left of the house.

 

“John, you took the evidence and burned it.”

 

John stood and faced him. “So that you wouldn’t have it to accuse my mother.”

 

“I accuse no one, but if there is guilt, I cannot alter it, no matter how much it grieves me; and no spells of yours can alter it, either. Your mother has the motive. It is she who stands to profit from these murders.” Sherlock crossed the house so he was only a foot away from John.

 

“If you knew her, you would not have such harsh thoughts about her. Nor if you felt anything for me.”

 

Sherlock scowled. “I am pinioned by a chain of reasoning! Why else did her friends conspire to conceal-”

 

“You are the detective, not me. So find another chain of reasoning and let me be.” John turned away from Sherlock, his face hard.

 

“I cannot, the one or the other, and I am heartsick with it.” Sherlock said, his voice soft.

 

“I think you have no heart, and I had a mind once to give you mine.” John looked at Sherlock again. Sherlock realized John was holding back tears.

 

“Yes, I think you loved me that day when you followed me into the Western Woods to have braved such peril.” He stepped closer to John, wanting to hold him.

 

John’s face flushed with anger. “What peril was there for me if it was my own mother who controlled the headless horseman?” John marched out of the house and mounted his horse. “Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes. I curse the day you came to sleepy Hollow.” John kicked up his horse and was gone.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock returned to the Van Tassel’s, and tried to talk to John again, but he could not find him. He was not on the main floor, nor in study off the Kitchen. He did not know which was his bedroom door, so he went looking for Mr. Van Tassel’s help. 

 

“He won’t see you.” Mr. Van Tassel said, stirring the pot over the hearth.

 

Sherlock had not even said anything, but he had asked after John enough, he supposed, that at this point, there was only one thing he could be after outside of mealtime. “Did he say anything?”

 

Mr. Van Tassel sighed. “Only that he will not come down.”

 

“I see, thank you.” Sherlock headed for the kitchen door.

 

“Mr. Holmes?”

 

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around to look at the man.

 

“You have not asked me how I have hurt my hand, which would have been polite. In fact, you have been as careful not to look at it, as to not mention it.” Mr. Van Tassel came up beside him and put the hand in front of his face, showing him the wound.

 

“Yes, I’m sorry. How did you-“

 

“I know you saw me.” Mr. Van Tassel whispered to him.

 

“What?” Sherlock stuttered.

 

“I know you followed last night, and you must promise not to tell my wife what you saw. Promise me!”

 

A door opened behind them and they both turned around to see Mrs. Van Tassel walking in through the side door.

 

“The town is in an uproar. Horror piled on tragedy; Hardenbrook is dead.”

 

“Oh no, that harmless old man?” Mr. Van Tassel said with so much inflection it came off feeling fake.

 

“Hanged himself in the night.” Mrs. Van Tassel poured herself a glass of wine and drank it quickly, leaning against the kitchen worktop.

 

“Hanged himself?” Sherlock asked shocked.

 

“Reverend Steenwyck called a meeting in the church tonight. Every man, woman, and child is going to speak out against you.” 

 

She pointed to Sherlock who could not help but draw himself up taller.

 

“If you’re wise, you’ll leave this place.”

 

Mr. Van Tassel raised a hand to sooth his wife, who gasped and looked at it.

 

“What is that?”

 

Mr. Van Tassel smiled. “I was careless with the kitchen knife.”

 

“The wound looks angry.” Mrs. Van Tassel said, staring at the cut.

 

Sherlock took the opportunity to leave the kitchen. As he left, he heard Mr. Van Tassel talking about going in search of herbs for his wound.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock went to the church meeting chiefly to see John. They had parted badly, and he did not like it. He was also curious to see how the town would attack the problem of the horseman. So far, they had done very little other than hide. Perhaps he could convince them it was time for action. He was concerned they would not let him, or young Masbath, in, so they decided to wait until everyone was inside before venturing to the door.

 

Everyone still in town were either already in the church, or standing at the doors waiting for Reverend Steenwyck to greet them as they entered.

 

A rider on horseback bound up the road towards the church yelling. “The horseman!” 

 

Sherlock turned to the rider and saw Bertha, looking visibly shaken, and out of breath.

 

“John, the horseman!” She called.

 

John turned from his place in line and ran towards her as the others ran inside.

 

“Mother.” He called, looking concerned.

 

Bertha dismounted and reached for John. He took his mothers hands, looking panicked, and tried to lead her inside.

 

“He killed him. The horseman killed your stepfather.” Bertha said, tears forming in her eyes.

 

John’s face paled. 

 

Sherlock felt the sudden impulse to be beside him incase John needed help.

 

Thunder clapped in the distance and Bertha’s horse whinnied. Out of a fast growing fog, another horse answered it. Sherlock turned and watched the horseman run out of the fog right at the church.

 

“Oh god!” Bertha cried, taking John by the arm and leading him to the door of the church.

 

Sherlock and Billy took their chance and ran for the door. They pushed in with the last group, unnoticed. Sherlock heard musket shots behind him as the men guarding the church opened fire. Inside, there was mass hysteria. People were shoving each other, trampling over feet, running nowhere in particular. 

 

Sherlock watched as Bertha pushed her way through the crowd, followed by John. She reached Reverend Steenwyck and took him by the collar.

 

The Reverend tried to shove her back. “You’ll kill us all! You’re the one the horseman wants.”

 

The two grappled with each other while people watched on, unsure of what to do. Sherlock’s eyes were on John, who had sunk to the floor towards the front of the room. He supposed he was in prayer. Sherlock needed to know where the horseman was, so he went to check the windows. Outside, he could see the horseman standing at the edge of the church gate. The horse pawed at the ground, the rider threw an axe onto the church soil and it dissolved in an instant.

 

“He cannot enter.” Sherlock whispered to himself.

 

Sherlock was pushed away from the window and the glass was broken. Several men took aim at the horseman, all in vain. Sherlock had seen Mary stab the man fatally and it had not done anything. He moved to the front of the church, wanting to share his new information.

 

“The horseman cannot enter.” He called out as he made his way to Reverend Steenwyck and Bertha.

 

“Why should we die for you?” Reverend Steenwyck shook Bertha.

 

Sherlock attempted to separate them. “The horseman cannot enter. He cannot cross the gate.” He yelled, trying to get their attention.

 

“We have to save ourselves!” Reverend Steenwyck growled at Sherlock.

 

Bertha reached for Sherlock, and he felt a hand near his hip. She shoved him away and when he recovered himself, he looked up to see she had taken his pistol.

 

“The next person that lays a hand on me will get a bullet!” She glared fiercely at Reverend Steenwyck, tears still steaming down her face, as if she was daring him to come at her.

 

“Enough have died already. It’s time to confess our sins.” Doctor Lancaster moved between Bertha and Reverend Steenwyck.

 

“What is it that you know?” Bertha asked, confusion showing on her face.

 

“Your four friends played you false.” The doctor took a breath, trying to calm himself. “We were devilishly possessed by one who-“

 

Behind the doctor, Reverend Steenwyck pulled the wooden cross off the pulpit and hit him on the back of the head with it. The doctor crumpled to the floor, and Bertha fired the pistol at Reverend Steenwyck. He gasped and collapsed. New screams filled the room.

 

Bertha covered her mouth with one hand, looking horrified at what she had done. She backed away from the bodies of her two friends, towards a window. She grabbed the musket off the man closest to her and held it in front of herself as if she thought the crowd would jump her.

 

“Get out of my way! Stand back!” Bertha walked up the short staircase to the top of the pulpit, waving anyone who got near her away with the musket. “Stay back!” She yelled, grimacing. 

 

John stood from his spot on the floor and looked up at his mother. Sherlock could only see the back of him, but he could see tension in the way he held himself.

 

She got to the top and looked out at the crowd. “There is a conspiracy here, and I will shake it out!”

 

John turned and looked at Sherlock with a sad and angry expression. Sherlock saw all too well what John was thinking. He had said over and over that his mother was innocent, and he hadn’t believed him, and, now, here was the proof. The woman was terrified, her own husband dead and Doctor Lancaster had even admitted to tricking her. He had been blinded, or perhaps he had been led to believe Bertha was the killer so he could move her out of the way of the real murderer.

 

Sherlock looked back up at Bertha as a wooden spike shot through her chest. Blood sprayed everywhere and Bertha gasped. Shock at the horrific scene made Sherlock want to turn away, but he stayed transfixed, feeling like he had been kicked in the gut.

 

John screamed and ran towards the pulpit. Sherlock followed him. It was too late. John was half way up the stairs when Bertha’s whole body was yanked out the window.

 

John reached the window first and looked out through the broken glass. Bertha had been dragged to the edge of the church, her head pulled through the fence. The horseman was swinging his sword, striding towards her. He rode past her, cutting off her head.

 

Next to him, John gasped and fainted. Sherlock turned as he heard the thud and looked down at John’s prone form. In his hand was a stick of white chalk. Sherlock studied it, and then stood up horrified. It looked to be the same color of the chalk that the symbol under his bead hand been drawn with. He looked out to the spot John had been kneeling and saw the same symbol. John had drawn the evil eye.

 

Could John be the one killing everyone and not his mother? No, the real John would not have hurt anyone. John must have been possessed, some dark magic making him do things he would not normally dream of. Sherlock did not dare leave John in the church with the townsfolk, so he picked him up and carried him back to the estate.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock changed John into his dressing gown and put him in his bed. When he had John tucked in, he looked down at him. The man looked angelic with his blond hair hanging like a halo around his head. Sherlock smiled sadly down at him. 

 

“It was an evil spirit possessed you. I pray God it is satisfied now, and that you find peace. The evil eye has done its work.” He sighed. “I feel like my life is over, spared for a lifetime of horrors in my sleep, waking each day to grieve you.” He leaned down and kissed John on the forehead. “Good-bye, John.” He whispered into his hair.

 

Before he left the house, he burned the notebook he had used to keep all his notes on the case. He did not want anyone ever knowing his findings. There were other sentimental entries he would not want to remember, as well as several sketches of John. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the book John had given him in the study soon after they had met. He thought about throwing it into the fire as well, but he felt he was allowed one thing to remember John by.

 

He heard the carriage pull up outside and went to the door where his things were waiting. In the hall, Billy met him and followed him to the door.

 

“You think it was John, don’t you?” The boy asked, not sounding convinced.

 

Sherlock stopped on the Van Tassel front porch and turned to face him. “That can never be uttered.” He growled.

 

“A strange sort of witch, with a kind and loving heart. How can you think so?” Billy demanded.

 

“I have good reason.” He sneered, wanting the conversation to end.

 

“Then you are bewitched by reason.” Billy said, trying not to raise his voice as he got angrier.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. John had said almost the same thing. “I am beaten down by it!” Sherlock said, glaring at the boy, his words coming out in a biting tone.

 

The carriage driver approached and Sherlock handed him his bag. When they were alone, Sherlock sighed, letting his voice soften.

 

“It is a hard lesson for a hard world, and you had better learn it. Villainy wears many masks, none so dangerous as the mask of virtue.”

 

Billy looked at him, tears forming in his eyes.

 

Sherlock awkwardly patted his shoulder and gave him a grim smile. “Farewell.”

 

He took one last look up at John’s window before he entered the carriage, then he set his mind to forgetting. He pulled out his paper trick to distract himself. As the carriage rode through town, it hit rough ground and had to slow at the coffin makers, where Mr. Van Tassel’s body was being lifted from a cart. He looked at the hand the man had cut in the woods. It must have been how they had identified him.

 

Sherlock suddenly felt uneasy about something, but he could not tell what. He realized that, despite the fact that he had a book about charms in his possession, he had never thought to look up the symbol John had drawn. He had just accepted Billy’s tale about it being an evil eye. 

 

He reached in this pocked and flipped though until he found the drawing. The title of the page was, ‘For the Protection of Loved One Against Evil Sprits’. He then flipped to the front of the book and dug the letter that had started the whole adventure out of his pocket. He compared the handwriting. He realized he had made a terrible mistake. John had not been trying to hinder him, it had been him who had brought him there in the first place. He had also been trying to protect him. 

 

He leaned out the window of the coach and yelled to the driver. “Turn around now!”

 

“What?” The driver called back.

 

He convinced the driver to turn around and had him take him to the coffin makers. 

 

He bounded in and took off the first lid he could find. The body within was Bertha’s, so he moved on to the next. There he found Mr. Van Tassel. He took his hand and studied the wound.

 

“No blood flow, no clotting, no healing.” He put the hand down and looked at the woman who had let him in. “When this cut was made, this man was already dead.”

 

Sherlock raced out to the carriage, but found the driver gone. He took the driver’s seat and kicked up the horses, heading back to the estate. 

 

\-----

 

John felt as if he was being pulled from a deep sleep, the last thing he remembered was being in his house and seeing his stepfather walk out of the shadows, which was impossible, because he was dead. He found himself on the floor, but it was not his home; he looked up and saw he was in the village’s windmill.

 

“Awake at last.” A voice sang at him.

 

John cringed, knowing who the owner of the voice had to be. He looked up and saw his stepfather sitting at a small fire with his back turned to him.

 

“Did you think it was all a nasty dream?” Mr. Van Tassel asked, sounding like he was enjoying John’s discomfort.

 

“Mother saw the horseman kill you.” John pulled himself up so he could run at any moment.

 

“She saw the horseman come towards me with his sword unsheathed.” Mr. Van Tassel corrected. He turned and smiled at John, his eyes looking wild. “But it is I who governs the horseman, my dear, and Bertha did not stay to watch.” He pouted.

 

“But there was a body.” John felt confused and hurt. He had lost him mother and Sherlock’s love. Discovering another person had lied to him was almost too much.

 

“The servant, Sam.” He laughed, “I always thought he was useless. But it seemed he had a purpose after all.”

 

John felt like he did not know the man in front of him, the one who had been there as his father had died and had befriended him. 

 

“Who are you?” John asked, realizing Sherlock might have been correct about a conspiracy.

 

“My father’s name was Moriarty, my mother’s was Archer.”

 

“The archer.” Could this all connect back the house he had lived in as a child?

 

“I lived with my father, mother, and brother in a cottage not far from here. My father carved an archer into the hearth as a gift for my mother. Until one day, my father died. The landlord, who had received many years of loyal service from my parents, evicted us.” Moriarty looked at John, his eyes full of a frightening deadness. “No one in this God-fearing town would take us in because my mother was suspected of witchcraft.” He smiled darkly down at John. “But she schooled her sons well while we lived as outcasts in the Western Woods.” Moriarty’s expression grew fond for a moment. “She died within a year. My brother and I remained in our refuge, seeing not a soul. Until one day, while gathering firewood, we crossed the path of the Hessian.”

 

Moriarty looked into the fire he had built, an odd smile playing across his face. “I saw his death. At that moment I offered my soul to Satan if he would raise the Hessian from the grave to avenge me.”

 

“Avenge you?”

 

“Against Van Garrett, the landlord who showed us no mercy and left us to starve, whilst Bertha Van Tasel, her simpering husband, and boy child stole our home.” He practically hissed the words at John. “I swore I would make myself master of all he had.” He gave John his dark smile again. “The easiest part was the first.”

 

John saw movement on the other side of the windmill and realized it was Billy. He tried his best not to look at him while the boy made his way to him.

 

“To enter your house as your father’s sick-nurse, and put his body into the grave and my own body into the marriage bed.” His expression darkened. “Not quite so easy was to secure my legacy. The widow had to go, of course, and the servant Masbath.” Moriarty faked shock but mostly looked amused. “What a goose!” His face darkened again, but his eyes lit up, making him look crazed. “So, another little job for the horseman. Lust delivered the Reverend Steenwyck into my power. Fear did the same for the notary Hardenbrook and the drunken Philipse. And the doctor’s silence I exchanged for my complicity in her fornications with the servant Sam.”

 

John felt broken inside. All those people had died for greed and Sherlock would live the rest of his life thinking John was to blame.

 

“Yes, you have everything now.” John said sadly.

 

“No!” Moriarty said angrily, moving to crouch in front of John. “You do, my dear, by your mothers will.” He smiled at John as if he was giving him a present. “I get everything in the event of your death!” He moved away from John then called to him over his shoulder. “My brother, by the way, sadly, passed away quiet recently.”

 

“You killed your own brother?”

 

“He brought it on himself by helping you and your master!” He turned to where Billy was sneaking up behind him.

 

Billy dropped the wooden hammer he had been holding and moved away from him. John jumped to his feet and watched Moriarty, waiting for any sudden movement

 

“You’re just in time to have your head cut off. “ Moriarty laughed.

 

Billy ran passed the mad man, towards John, and they both headed to the door of the windmill.

 

“The horseman comes, and, tonight, he comes for you!” Moriarty called after them.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock watched as John and Billy ran out of the windmill and down the hill it sat on. He pulled the carriage to a halt and called to them.

 

“John!” He jumped off the carriage and ran towards them. 

 

Mr. Van Tassel walked out the door of the windmill, a few steps behind John and Billy, but did not follow them down the hill. When Sherlock reached John, he reached out and put an arm around him, pulling him close. Billy ran and stood behind them, holding on to the edge of his jacket.

 

“Thank god.” He whispered into John’s hair as he pulled him close.

 

Thunder clapped behind them and the sound of hooves filled the air. They turned and watched as the horseman rode right for them, out of the storm that seemed to follow him. They rushed down the hill away from the windmill. They all climbed into the driver’s seat of the carriage and rode away.

 

“Where are we going?” Billed asked, sounding shaken.

 

“Anywhere but here.” Sherlock yelled.

 

The sound of horse’s hooves and thunder rang out behind them. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and saw the horseman gaining on them.

 

“Here, take the reins.” He handed the reins to John and grabbed the musket off the back of the seat.

 

Sherlock climbed onto the roof of the carriage and aimed at the horseman. It would not kill him, but it would slow him down. When the horse rode out of the fog, the rider was gone. Sherlock looked around, panicked. A hand appeared on the roof of the carriage and the horseman pulled himself up. Sherlock shot him in the chest when it was visible. The horseman fell back.

 

“Is he dead?” Billy asked, looking exhausted.

 

“That’s the problem. He was dead to begin with.” Sherlock stood on the roof of the carriage to see if he could spot the horseman, but all he could see was the road and the Hessian’s horse following behind them.

 

“Sherlock!” John called out.

 

Sherlock was struck in the back by a low branch. He tumbled off the back of the carriage onto the rider-less horse, the gun clattering to the ground. He sat up in the saddle and realized he was facing the wrong way. He quickly changed so he was facing forward in order to take control of the horse. When he looked ahead at the carriage, he saw the horseman holding onto a bar at the bottom, being dragged behind it.

 

Sherlock was grateful the Hessian’s horse obeyed him as he ordered it to go faster. He was able to catch up with the carriage and jump onto the horseman’s back. He tried to clamber up the man and back into the carriage, but, instead, he just kicked the horseman from his place and slipped, just barely catching hold of the bar himself. 

 

He was being dragged behind the carriage though the woods, all kinds of underbrush scraping at his legs. As Sherlock held on for dear life, he watched the horseman rush past him, letting his horse drag him along the ground as he clutched the fallen reins. With increased vigor, Sherlock finally pulled himself from the ground, into the back of the carriage, then back on top of it.

 

He lay flat along the roof and looked in the side window, sure he’d find the horseman inside. Sherlock heard the sound of a sword unsheathe behind and above him. He pushed himself backwards, between the horseman’s legs, right before the sword struck where his head had been. Sherlock crawled thought the horseman’s legs to the other side of him. He was tangled slightly in the horseman’s cloak, momentarily upsetting the horseman’s balance.

 

“Jump forward!” Sherlock yelled. He watched John and Billy each jump onto one of the horses pulling the carriage.

 

The horseman picked him up by the collar and held him while they both stood on the roof. The carriage hit a bump in the road, making the horseman let Sherlock go and fall backwards into the driver’s seat. Sherlock rolled away from the horseman, seeing him raise his sword. He stepped towards the front of the carriage, hoping to jump onto one of the horses. The beam he stepped on broke, causing him to fall. He grabbed hold of the first thing he could and found that he was being pulled by the two horses, leaving the carriage behind.

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he was pulled along the rough ground. When the horses stopped, he jumped right into action, ignoring the aches he felt from his fight and the subsequent dragging. They all rushed forward until they were standing in front of the tree of the dead.

 

Mr. Van Tassel was already there, as if waiting for them, looking down at them from his horse. He gave them a wicked grin.

 

“Still alive?” He asked.

 

“Run, John!” Sherlock yelled, shoving him towards the thick woods off the path.

 

John dashed off without a word.

 

“Yes, do run, and jump, and skip!” Mr. Van Tassel pulled out a pistol and pointed it at John.

 

Sherlock walked towards him, hoping to distract him. The pistol turned to point at him. He figured the man was all bluff, so when the bullet hit him, he wasn’t prepared.

 

“No!” Billy yelled out next to him.

 

The storm got worse around them. The thunder so loud it was almost deafening. Sherlock lay prone on the ground.

 

“Here! Take him!” Mr. Van Tassel yelled. “He’s yours!”

 

Sherlock looked up from his place on the ground and saw Mr. Van Tassel take John by the hair and hold him as an offering to the horseman. John struggled against the man, but he had a firm grip on him.

 

Billy bent over him to inspect his wound and smiled at him.

 

“Sir, you’re not dead!”

 

Sherlock put his hand over his heart and realized the boy was right. He had not been hurt because the book John had gifted him had been there to protect him. He pulled himself into a seated position and looked around them for his next move.

 

Hanging off Mr. Van Tassel’s wrist was a black bag. That had to be where the skull was. He charged at the man and knocked him off his horse. The bag fell to the ground, skull rolling out of it.

 

Sherlock tried to stand and get it, but Mr. Van Tassel pulled him back to the ground. The man climbed onto Sherlock’s back, pulling his hair back. Sherlock yelled, still reaching for the skull. Without notice, the grip on his hair loosened and Mr. Van Tassel slid off him. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see Billy holding a large branch over his head, glaring down at Mr. Van Tassel.

 

Sherlock heard a loud gasp and looked up to see the horseman had reached John. He had him by the hair, holding his neck exposed, ready to cut. John was looking at the horseman, strangely calm. The sword lifted, but Sherlock had the skull.

 

“Horseman!” Sherlock pulled the skull from the bag, showing it to the Hessian. 

 

The horseman let go of John and pushed him to the ground. Sherlock tossed him the skull and waited. The horseman caught it, placing it back on his head. The face slowly covered itself in muscles and skin, hair growing slowly from its follicles. 

 

Sherlock rushed to John and helped him up. He pulled him against his chest, feeling better now that he had John in his arms again. John looked like he was going to ask how he had survived being shot, so Sherlock opened his jacket and showed him his book in his breast pocket. John looked relieved and slightly hopeful.

 

They looked back as the horseman turned to face them, his face fully formed. His eyes were blue, like ice, with no depth, nor emotion, in them. His hair was black, the same as his clothing. He stepped towards them and John stepped to the front, pushing Sherlock behind him.

 

The horseman’s horse found its way up the road and the rider climbed into the saddle, riding towards Mr. Van Tassel, who was still lying unconscious on the ground. He lifted the man into the saddle with him and moved his horse so it was facing the tree. The hole they had seen him jump out of the last time they had been there reopened.

 

Sherlock could see Mr. Van Tassel waking up in the horseman’s arms. He looked up at him and started laughing. He looked mad. The horseman kicked up his horse, riding for the hole in the three.

 

“Oh, this has been fun!” Mr. Van Tassel yelled before the tree closed behind him.

 

Blood gushed out from the tree, and when they looked, one of Mr. Van Tassel’s hands, the one he had cut to trick them, was still sticking out of the tree.

 

Sherlock felt faint from everything that had happened that evening. Then he saw Mr. Van Tassel’s pointed finger coil in as if beckoning them to follow. Sherlock collapsed.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock felt the press of lips on his cheek and opened his eyes. He looked out the carriage window and realized they were in New York. He smiled and turned to look at John, who was sitting next to him.

 

“Ahh. Just in time for a new century, shall we?” 

 

John leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. “Yes.” He whispered.

 

Sherlock stepped out of the carriage, and then helped John. He looked at the man he now called his lover, dressed in his new suit and ready for a new life, the two of them together.

 

Billy stood next to the carriage, holding all their bags, looking around at the buildings, as if he was afraid of them. 

 

Sherlock held out his arm and John took it, looking excited and relieved. Sleepy Hollow was behind them now. John had sold off the estate, and, now, a wealthy man was ready to see more of the world.

 

“You’ll soon get your bearings, young Masbath. “ Sherlock said, turning to the boy. “The Bronx is up; the Battery is down. And home is this way.” He smiled at John who smiled back. The future looked bright now, with the man he loved by his side. The rest of world might be idiots who did not respect his work, but at least they had each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and Happy Halloween!

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads or ebooks tree without my express permission.


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